


Blew Out Your Satellite

by MooseFeels



Series: Revelation [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Domestic, Omega Dean Winchester, abuse mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel asks something big of Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Castiel stands in front of the stove, pushing the eggs around in the pan, back and forth. Cas doesn't make good eggs, not like Gabriel and Anna do. Castiel is an okay cook, but he hasn't gotten the hang of eggs yet. Dean finds it endearing, to be honest. It's nice to see Castiel be...fallible, in such a small way.

Dean's bad at lots of things, and Castiel can't make eggs.

He sits at the table and he watches him. His hair is a mess, pulled up at odd angles from his head. He's wearing an undershirt and his boxers, wrinkled from sleep. Dean's only wearing his boxers, but he's not too cold in the room.

"I hope you like them...burnt?" Castiel murmurs over the stove. He moves the eggs to a plate with two pieces of toast and pours a tall glass of milk. He places both before Dean at the table. He heads back to the fridge and pulls out a container full of smoked fish. He places it on the table and sits down across from him. He grabs a chunk of smoked fish for himself and chews it messily for a long minute, and then he says, "This isn't a good enough house for you."

Dean frowns at him around a mouthful of scorched eggs.

"It's just a cabin," he says. "The water heater is temperamental and the stove doesn't always work and there's not good heating. Not good enough for you."

Dean finishes chewing and says quietly, "Well, it's bigger than the studio."

Castiel shakes his head. "No," he answers. "No, it's not that. Dean- I have a- there's the house on the hill."

Dean almost chokes on his breakfast.

"I haven't been there in-since-" He pauses, heavily. "I haven't been there since Raphael and Father died. But it's mine. Technically. As Alpha, and in the will, too."

Dean feels his words fail him, and gestures, writing with his fingers on his palm. Castiel passes him a pen and a stack of postits.

  
_I don't need that,_ Dean writes. _If you don't want it, I don't need it._

Castiel shakes his head. "No," he murmurs. "No, it's been...it's been a long time. It's been long enough. It's time." He clenches his jaw for a moment, thoughtful. "I need to take care of you. You _deserve_ someone who can take care of you, somewhere you can be safe."

  
_You already take care of me,_ Dean writes. _And I'm safe here, with the pack. I don't need a cage._

Castiel shakes his head. "No," he answers, "no, it's not that. I want...I want to make a hearth with you. A family, with you. And this place," Castiel looks around. "It's broken. I was broken here." He bites his bottom lip. "I was broken here. You deserve to be somewhere...you deserve me when I'm not broken."

"I don't think you're broken," Dean says, softly.

Castiel closes his eyes for just a moment, and he says, "Dean, I'm...I'm forgetful and self-destructive and obtuse and-"

"Then I don't _care_ if you're broken," Dean interrupts. "Because you're _mine_. And I'm broken too. I don't need more. I have everything. I have you."

Castiel waits for a long, long moment, and then he says, his voice a little hoarse, "I know you don't want more. But I want to give you more. I'm ready. And if you're not, I can wait. I can wait for as long as you need."

Dean looks down at his breakfast, a few bites of it already taken. He writes, _I know the house on the hill is Important._

Dean thinks of the Alpha in Montana. The lodge, up on the mountain, it's wooden halls. Its omnipresence-- they could see it from every corner of town and in every living room window. The Alpha, the will of God on this Earth, seeing from every place. The Lodge is an extension of the hand, the eye, the command of the Alpha. The will of God, in a building. The Lodge.

The House on the Hill.

  
_What if it changes?_ Dean writes.

Castiel looks at it for a long, long time. Puzzled. Thoughtful. "You'll still be Dean. You'll be _my_ Dean. My mate. And my equal. No house is will change this. And I mean it; if you don't want this, we won't do it. We can stay here or split time between here and your studio or we can find a new house, maybe in the middle of town and give Gabriel and Anna the house. You don't have to. And I won't make you."

Dean looks at him for a long, long time.

He thinks about the smoke in the hall.

He thinks about Castiel's hands, slipping the IV carefully into his body.

He thinks about the smell of sweat and the cry of voices-- the _screaming_ \-- that echoed down the hallways.

He thinks about Castiel's smile when he wakes up in the morning, happy to see him after a long rest.

He thinks about how Castiel has never asked him for something Dean would not willingly give. How Castiel has never demanded anything of him.

Dean nods.

"The house on the hill," he says. "I haven't marked any of the wood up there." 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's in his studio. He's working on the loom today, a long complicated project that's going to keep him busy for a while. Dean likes to be doing things; he likes to be occupied. Castiel understands that viscerally, even if Dean's processes tend to be a good deal more meditative than his own.

The gravel has washed away a bit over the years, with no one to care for the road or path. The gate was resistant to opening, rust clinging to the hinges. It's been almost seven years now since someone's opened it; it makes sense that it's _iffy_. The low hanging branches of the trees and bushes brush against the sides and top of the truck, scraping at the paint.

Castiel pulls into the driveway, in front of the garage.

The house sits in front of him, huge and empty.

The curtains are drawn, but he can't see them through the sturdy wooden shutters pulled over the windows; keeping the glass safe from wind and weather. The paint has chipped and faded from the door.

God, it looks so _dead_.

Castiel rubs the shape of the key over his finger, familiar and old. A shape that meant _home_ for such a long time. The steps are as faded and old as the door, and Castiel moves carefully over them.

The lock sticks, but that's expected.

And he opens the door.

It's dark inside the house, and still. In the slight cast of light that has come into the space, the furniture is barely perceivable, just visible by the white drapes to keep the dust off of them.

Castiel coughs, the dust irritating his lungs and eyes.

He didn't see Anna and Gabriel clean it and pack it away. He was barely able to go the funerals, much less functional enough to pack boxes and cover the furniture.

It looks so haunted, like this. Like no one lived here, much less their whole family. Castiel's first pack.

He places his keys on the small desk near the door. He fumbles slowly toward the first window he can find, and he peels away the heavy insulating curtains, nothing like the long velvet ones he grew up with. He opens the window and unlatches the interior claps on the shutter and pushes them away.

Light streams in, and the room becomes brighter.

The photographs are down from the wall. The rugs have been rolled and bagged in long canvas sacks and stacked in the archway leading into the parlor.

He looks at the parlor, a stark space without the Christmas tree he last saw in it.

Castiel feels a weight, suddenly. Different from the one of seeing the house from the road or sometimes from a trail in the woods. Different from the looks in town.

It's always been his fault, what happened here. The way it's closed, forced into quietude and a kind of death.

He made this house, where he lived, where he grew up-- this house that _nurtured_ him-- he made it the mortuary. The grave for what his pack _was_ and all the things he did to ruin it. To break it.

They had told him that he was a fool; that the city was nothing but trouble.

And goddamnit, he didn't listen.

He leans against the wall, and sinks slowly down. Beside him, dust motes catch in the sunlight. New air flows into the house for the first time in years, but it still has the stale smell of a closed, silent space.

It is the silence that is killing him. He remembers it so loud and so bright and so _alive_.

He will make it alive again.

  
_Dean_ will make it alive again.

He pulls the envelop from his pocket and looks at it some more.

  
_Open it for me,_ Dean wrote on the front of it.

Castiel understand that anxiety.

This letter, this letter from the hospital, sits _thick_ in his hand. It's not just a bill; this he knows. There's something in here. Something that might be bad.

God, he's not sure if he can bear to open it either.

It's so much.

He doesn't understand why anyone would _want_ to be Alpha, to be this big symbol and shape for the spirit and idea of the pack. His failures...the _failures_ , they're so big. They all know. They all see. He can't just fuck up or have a bad week. It's all on him. It's not just him. It's the pack.

And if it's bad for Dean, it's bad for Castiel, and it's bad for the pack.

Dean's barely a week baptized. Dean being sick or needing help, they won't see it as anything other than a burden. They won't see _him_ as anything other than a burden. A burden to Castiel and a burden to the pack.

But the thing is, Castiel can't bear to think of a life without him. He _needs_ him, like he needs air and dirt and coffee and tea. And if Dean is sick-- and the rumors have spread-- or if Dean is _barren_ \-- and those rumors have spread, too--

If they ask Castiel to remove Dean from the pack, Castiel will go with him.

Moving back into the house, it's almost a promise. A nod that things will be more like they once were; that Castiel will be _there_ , more. That he will have a hearth and a family. And if they demand that they both leave, it will be another promise he has broken for them.

He sits in the empty house for a long, long moment, and then he runs his finger along to the flap, tearing the letter open.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Warp and weave. A few colors, grey and navy and pale, pale blue. Dean works with them until they meld slowly into each other, like the color of the sea.

Dean thinks a lot about the sea, so large and just outside his door. The sound of it is everywhere in this town and in his studio. Growing up, it had been so _distant_ , something he never thought he'd see much less something he thought he'd live with. There's signs along the roads about what to do when the tsunami siren goes off, there's salt damage on the metal of his door, there's sand in his shoes.

A mile or so down the beach, there is huge tree, washed up by the sea onto the sand. It's huge, bigger than Dean thought a tree could ever _become_ , and yet here it is. Abandoned at the whims of the sea, at his door.

It is like a wolf, pacing at their door all the time.

Dean thinks about the strange, hungry sea, as he weaves. He thinks about the waves as he runs the shuttle back and forth, as he shifts the frames. He thinks about the color of it.

He needs to get the color of it right, even if it's just a little piece of the overall piece of fabric he's made.

It's not that he wants to _fix_ the sea in place, make it something permanent. It's that the sea is unending and enormous, and it dominates his life now. He wakes to it. He falls asleep to it. He thinks about it.

The sea.

And as long as he thinks about the sea and the loom, he doesn't have to think about anything else.

He keeps working, and he tries not to think about the house and Castiel and the _letter_.

The letter had been thick. Maybe it was just a bill, which he can pay. Dean has the money from when he was _left_ here still, and he has the money from selling the knots. He's got what Benny calls a _nest egg,_ and the thought of it makes Dean feel warm and secure. He doesn't have to rely on the money from the pack to take care of himself.

He was baptized last week, but Dean doesn't have any illusions. Anthony Sandover and his father might be gone, but there's others, Dean's sure. Others who think he doesn't belong here, that he's a burden.

And if that envelope is more than a bill, then he'll pay for that too.

Dean weaves.

Warp and weft.

He's not sure how long he's at the loom, but the light begins to fade, and just has he's about to stand up to turn on the light, the door opens.

Dean looks up, and Castiel stands there, papers in his hands. Sweat along his brow, face flushed.

Dean looks at him for a moment, and he shakes his head.

He shakes his head again. "Dean," he says. "Dean I-"

Dean feels it like a punch in his gut.

It was more than a bill.

His words leave him quickly. He's breathless, suddenly broken and hyperventilating. Shaking.

Castiel dashes through the studio quickly and catches him as he falls off the stool.

"Dean," Castiel says, his voice deep and growling. "Dean, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Dean lets his hands grip into Castiel's clothes, and he pulls him forward. He needs him. He needs how sturdy and real he is.

It was more than a bill, and that means there's something wrong.

There's something wrong.

* * *

Castiel holds Dean, on the floor of the studio, as the daylight begins to drain away from the day and night floods in its place.

Castiel has to tell him. He has to tell him.

How the hell is he going to tell him?

They sit there for a long, long time before Dean pulls away from him for a moment. He writes on his chest with his finger,  _What is it?_  


Castiel closes his eyes for a moment. He grits his teeth.

"There's something...I read it a few times, and I read the notes...there's something about your...your...and your spine...it's all fucked up. Some of it's genetic and some of it is because you didn't get good food when you were little, but...it's not good."

Dean looks at him for a long moment, and then he writes on his chest,  _Is that it_?  
"We have to keep an eye on you for diabetes," Castiel continues. "And you can't have a baby."

Dean falls forward, back onto his chest. His hands fist back into his shirt, tight enough Castiel's sure he's straining stitches.

Castiel feels a warmth on his chest where Dean has started crying.

Castiel holds him, in the dark, for as long as he needs.

"I can't even give you children," Dean whispers against his chest. "I had one purpose, and I can't even do that right."

"No," Castiel says. "No, Dean, no. No. I love you. I love you. I loved you before this and I love you after this and I love you through this. And nothing will change that."

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers. "I'm sorry."

Castiel holds him as the moon appears in the sky, the light making the studio dim and silhouetted. It's a clear night, otherwise the darkness would not be so bright and clear.

Castiel pulls Dean into his arms, legs draped over one arm and back supported against the other. He stands carefully, one foot at a time, and he walks carefully through the studio to the stairwell. He walks up, to the space that is Dean's apartment and walks carefully to his bed. He lays him down, softly.

"Don't leave me," Dean whispers, keeping his hold on his shirt. "Please."

Castiel lays over the bed, next to Dean. Holds him close and tight.

Dean cries. Quietly. Steadily.

Castiel holds him, through the night.  


	4. Chapter 4

Dean feels empty. He feels...he feels like something has been taken from inside of him; something has been stolen. He feels hollow.

He's broken.

It's been nearly a week now, and it's still there.

He doesn't want to get out of bed. He doesn't want to eat. He doesn't want to shower.

He can't _talk_ , and he doesn't want to write, either.

He doesn't want to walk, he doesn't want to make knots.

It's not that he wants to sleep, its that it just kind of _happens_ to him, because he just lays there.

It hurts in a different way.

The phone rings every once in a while. No one has come by in days, either, not since Castiel left-- something about repairmen, something about he'd be back soon.

Dean knows he's gone, though. That he's not coming back.

There is a limit to his kindness; a limit to the kindness of all people. That's okay-- that's _human_. He took him from the cold. He took him to the hospital. He opened his home and his pack to him, he taught him a skill, gave him the money that was his dowry. He can't keep him if he's broken, if he can't even  give him pups. Children. More. _Something more_.

Dean can give him nothing. Dean can give him nothing.

Dean lays in bed.

Heavy.

Dean lays in bed.

And time passes, slowly, unevenly. Minutes are interminable. Eternal. Hours, more so. But days fly by, blend together.

Dean doesn't eat. Barely sleeps. Doesn't shower. He moves slowly, when he does move.

Time passes.

Maybe it doesn't.

Dean doesn't care. He lets it drag, lets it slip by.

He thinks of the sea, that curls in and slips out. The sound of it, constant.

He thinks of his own wordlessness.

Dean hears a noise, downstairs, and then a little more.

He feels hands on his back, soft and cool.

"Dean," he hears Castiel says. "Dean, beloved, can you stand? Can you come with me?"

Dean turns around, slowly, in bed. He looks at Castiel, who looks as tired as Dean feels. His hair is a mess. His bright eyes are ringed heavily, darkly.

"Please, I'm sorry I had to leave, I just...I needed to get some things in order. Please. Dean, please. I know it hurts. I know it hurts you. Please. Please, let me take...let me take this from you. Please. I love you. I need you. Let me help."

Dean closes his eyes. He knits his fingers into Castiel's, carefully.

"Please," Castiel says softly.

Dean can't quite stand when he moves to get off the bed, but Castiel picks him up carefully. Slowly. He carries him carefully, down the stairs to the truck.

Dean doesn't buckle himself in, and Castiel doesn't tell him to.

They just drive slowly, away from the sea. Away from the ebb and flow of it. Wordlessly.

Castiel winds up a hill, long and slow, and he pulls in front of a house.

So this is it.

And he will finally be removed from the pack. Left somewhere new.

He wishes they would just kill him already.

Castiel climbs out and opens Dean's door. Helps him down carefully.

Dean looks at the house. The lodge.

He looks at Castiel.

The last time he will be Castiel and not the last alpha to leave him broken and a stranger elsewhere.

Dean clears his throat. His voice is going to be raw and soft, but there's nothing he can do to help that.

"No matter what happens here," he says, his voice breaking, "what they say, or what you do...I don't regret meeting you. Or loving you."

Castiel frowns for a moment.

He lays his hands on Dean's shoulders.

"I love you completely," Castiel says. "Utterly."

He leans forward a bit, and kisses him gently.

He is a little shorter than Dean now, and something about that thought is weird to him.

"I don't want to leave you somewhere, and I won't let someone else do that to you," Castiel replies, softly. "I want to bring you _home_."


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel wakes up in bed with Dean, and he looks at him. He looks at the apartment, at this space, and he knows that he can't do this here, for Dean. With Dean.

He can't help Dean heal here, not really. It's not the right place. It's Dean's cabin.

The studio is important. His work is important. And Castiel doesn't want to keep him away from it, from his work. From these things that matter so much to him. But Castiel knows that...he knows that Dean needs more. He needs something whole and safe.

He kisses him, softly.

He'll be back soon.

He drives back up the hill, and he works.

The dropclothes kept the dust off of everything well enough. The power and water come back within hours of making the call. Cedar kept the moths out, and open windows get the bad air out quickly enough. Once the fridge and freezer get up to temperature, Castiel fills them with a carload of groceries from the cabin and new from the store. He puts in new windows for the three that were blown out. Sets traps for the mice; calls Benny for the starlings that have settled in the attic. He works quickly, as fast as he can. He sleeps a couple of hours each night, but mostly he works.

He finishes one evening. The heat is on. The lightbulbs are all fresh and new, the fridge is full. Every bed has been made and aired and the rugs have been beaten; the floors swept. It's ready. It's real.

It's almost alive again.

And it's safe.

Castiel closes the door behind himself and he gets Dean, and now-

Now he stands in front of the door again, with the man he loves _intensely,_ waiting.

Dean looks at the door, glowing in the night, the windows of it made bright and clear.

Dean turns and looks at him.

God, he looks so thin. So small. So sad.

"I love you," Castiel repeats. "And I know that...I know you have trouble believing me, when I say these things. But you're hurting. Please."

Dean looks at the house for a long moment.

He looks back at Castiel.

Dean opens his mouth, and he closes it. He closes his eyes, grits his teeth.

He wants to say something, but its hard for him. Difficult.

"In Montana," he says, finally. "The lodge, the alpha's house. It was not _safe_. And they did things there. Wrong things." Dean inhales. Dean exhales. "Not to me. But I heard."

Castiel looks at Dean for a long, long time.

"One day," he answers, "We'll open the doors. Let other people in, maybe. But for now, this is ours. This is yours. I'm not that kind of Alpha. And my father wasn't that kind of Alpha. This place...this is our family. I want to be your family here. Even if it's just the two of us. Because I love you. I love you every day."

Dean leans forward. Lays his head on his chest.

"Okay," he says, softly.

Castiel holds him, close, standing before the steps to their house.


End file.
